


like a complicated line of code

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Accidental Kink Reveal, Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Belly worship, Chubby Kink, Early Relationship, Established Relationship, John Reese's Bulletproof Harold Finch Kink, M/M, belly love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:35:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23627791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: He's supposed to be checking for injuries. Their perp punched Harold in the gut, and now John's looking for signs of hemorrhaging. That's it.A mild injury for Harold reveals more about John than John was ready to reveal.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese
Comments: 16
Kudos: 99





	like a complicated line of code

**Author's Note:**

> More from the "been sitting in my WIP files for too damn long" files.

He's supposed to be checking for injuries. Their perp punched Harold in the gut, and now John's looking for signs of hemorrhaging. That's it.

He runs his hands over Harold's belly again—just checking, he tells himself, even though he knows it's a damn lie. Harold's belly is so warm and soft, hard to resist, _perfect_. Rounded but not huge, a plump curve that jiggled a bit when John pulled up Harold's undershirt, that gives in almost eagerly to the careful pressure of John's fingers and fills his palms just right. There's dark hair running mostly down the middle, neat and shining with stray grays, disappearing beneath Harold's shirt and the waistband of his dark green pants. A livid red mark that Harold said was "sore, but tolerable" stands out in the center, and John's struck with the urge to slam his own fist through the face of the guy who left it. Again.

If John closes his eyes, he can still see Harold taking the hit, the perp's fist slamming fast and deep and too damn hard into Harold's gut. Can still hear the fleshy thud, the rush of Harold's breath and the bitten-back grunt as Harold fought not to double over, not to show how much it hurt. John doesn't close his eyes. He looks at Harold instead.

Harold has a few pale stretch marks on his belly, old and only visible from this close, and a deep navel. John wonders what would happen if he gave in to the temptation to dip a finger in and tease, if Harold's belly button is sensitive like his own. Would Harold try to squirm away, would he hiss or groan or do nothing, would he push insistently against it, seeking more?

It's not right for him to keep doing this, John thinks. He should stop. There's a sickening twist of guilt tangling with the arousal in his own gut, saying he's taking advantage or something, that they haven't been a couple long enough for this weird _thing_ of his to come out. They haven't even had time for a quick nap together, much less to fuck, with number after number pouring in ever since that first kiss, for god's sake. Never mind that there are bigger, more profound feelings and experiences between them than sex and romance. Most people don't like having this much attention on their guts, Harold's is probably sore, and, goddammit, John should stop fondling it.

But Harold hasn't complained since those first obligatory protests that he was fine, that he'd _"been punched in the stomach before, John; there's no need to fuss over me like this,"_ and John had shot back with, _"Humor me, Harold,"_ as he'd unbuttoned Harold's vest, then his shirt. John's gone past examining and straight into rubbing Harold's belly now, moving his hands in broad and gentle strokes over the yielding flesh, careful not to put pressure on the bruise, and Harold hasn't said a damn word. He caresses Harold's belly, enjoying the way it feels beneath his palms, the way his fingers curve over the lush and comforting and vulnerable arch. He wants to press his face to it, bury himself in its generous warmth, cover it in kisses, worship it. Harold's belly, _Harold,_ deserves to be worshiped.

"You like it, don't you?"

John dares to glance up, and finds Harold watching him, not with horror or disgust, but fascination and fondness, lips just barely quirked up at the corners. It's like John's a complicated line of code he hasn't figured out yet but likes. Their eyes meet, and John wonders what the hell his own say, because after a moment, Harold smiles gently, and tugs the edges of his open vest and shirt aside, baring more of his belly.

"Harold?" John says, disbelieving, his voice barely above a whisper. He still can't bring himself to pull his hands away, even though his heart has started pounding, even though he feels caught. Exposed. More exposed, more _naked_ than Harold's bare gut. Nothing scares him like Harold. It would be funny to some, he thinks, the idea that an aging nerd with a limp and a belly could scare the hell out of a guy like him. But those people had never met Harold Finch.

"My belly," Harold says, and an odd, hot thrill runs through John at the chosen word, coiling deep in his own gut. He suppresses a shiver. "You like it."

John stares at him for a moment. Slowly, he remembers how to speak, and he licks his dry lips before saying, "Yes."

"I suspected as much. I thought at first you were just...expressing your concern for me, but that's not all there is to it, is it? You find my body—and this particular part of it—quite attractive, don't you?"

John wants to look away, but he can't. A quiet, "Sorry," slips out.

Harold's face falls, and he briefly strokes John's cheek with his fingertips. "Oh, heavens no, please don't apologize," he says, in that same kind tone, dropping his hand to John's shoulder. "I must admit, I don't see the appeal of it myself." Harold frowns at his belly, and runs his other hand over it, splaying it briefly over the developing bruise. John watches with his breath caught in his throat and his pulse trapped in his ears, transfixed by the slide of Harold's hand across the soft, rounded flesh, by the very slight dip in the skin beneath Harold's pale hand, by the way that hand curves over the plump little swell. With a self-deprecating laugh that makes his belly quiver and makes John's clench, Harold adds, "It's become quite a bit bigger than I'd like over the past few decades." Then, he locks eyes with John again. "But I suppose I don't really need to understand, do I?"

"No." John swallows hard. "You don't." He's not sure he could explain it if he tried.

But Harold looks satisfied with his answer, thank god. "Well, then. If there's something in particular that you'd like to do to my belly," slightly emphasizing the word _belly_ —because of course Harold noticed John's reaction to that somehow—and gesturing toward his middle, "go ahead."

John sucks in a sharp breath through his nose. Nothing scares him like Harold, he thinks, because nobody gets him like Harold. And Harold trusts him. Being trusted by someone who trusts no one is a powerful, terrifying feeling. John's not a good man. Harold's not perfect—god, no, he's not—but he is good. And he wants John, _trusts_ John.

And if John fucks this up...

Not averting his gaze, John leans in, keeping his intentions clear, giving Harold a chance to reconsider, to decide this is too weird, until his lips brush ever so gently against the bruise. Harold's breath hitches, and it makes his belly quake so beautifully.

"If it makes this any easier for you—" Harold says, and starts combing his fingers through John's hair, fingernails scratching lightly at his scalp. John sighs, and some of the tension melts from his bones. "—you should know that what you were doing to me just now felt...very good, actually, and a partialism for the abdomen is hardly the strangest kink I've ever encountered. And I do _very_ much enjoy watching you enjoy yourself. So, as long as you don't intend to hurt me..."

"Never," John says, vehemently, looking deep into Harold's eyes. "I won't—" No, that's a promise he's not sure he can keep, no matter how much he needs it to be true. "I never want to hurt you."

"Then, even though I don't _quite_ understand, I see no reason to deny you this." Harold smiles sweetly. "Go on, John. You can touch my belly all you like."

Feeling like the air's been shoved violently from his lungs, John buries his face in Harold's chest, breathes in the warm, familiar scent of him until it loosens the knots beneath his sternum.

"Thank you," he whispers, when he can move again, and he dips down and drags his lips over Harold's belly, across the patch of hair to soft, pale skin, following the shape of the bulge until he bumps into his own hand. He slides his hands out of his way, splaying them on Harold's back as he drops kisses on the rest of Harold's belly, nuzzles it with his nose, tastes the hint of salt on it with his tongue. It's perfect, he thinks, and he's _allowed_ , he can touch Harold's belly to his heart's content, can run his hands over it again, can rub his cheeks against it, can press an ear to it and listen, _anything_.

So he does.


End file.
